Held In Some Dreaming State
by When In Doubt Smile
Summary: The room burns and all that Clint wants is to see Natasha's smile, hear her laugh, feel her touch, smell her hair, taste her lips. That is all he wants as the pictures around him catch fire.


**Disclaimer: I do not own anything you recognize here. Avengers is property of Marvel and song lyrics are property of Florence and the Machine, Lana Del Rey, Kate Bush, Taylor Swift, and Lifehouse. I don't own the picture used. Finally, the title is from "Blinding" by Florence and the Machine.**

**In case anyone gets confused:** _Italics are indicative of reality. _**Hope that didn't spoil you. **

Held In Some Dreaming State

* * *

None of it makes sense. Not truly. Not if Clint is going to be honest with himself. Nothing makes sense, but the weight of overwhelming irony is enough to make Clint feel like it all must be a joke. There is no way that all the things that have happened in the past four days have actually occurred. No way that he is in Russia alone. No way that he is in the headquarters of the Red Room as it burns. There is no way that Clint is sitting on a bed that used to belong to Natalia Romanova without Natasha. There is no way that Natasha is not around to see Clint and to rejoice in the destruction of a group that has torn apart countless lives. But there has to be a way for all these things to happen because Clint's tears are dampening red hair as flames destroy an old building in Russia.

In moments like this, when life becomes death and fear becomes liberation, Clint sees details. And for that, Clint is grateful, because as the Red Room burns, he notices the pictures on Natasha's wall. He doesn't know how many she herself put up, but that doesn't matter because all Clint really wants is to see her face, her beautiful smile. The pictures cover every square inch of the walls, overwhelming the room with a feeling of pure _Natasha_. They cover every time period of her life from the looks of it. He sees her as a young child, a teenager, a woman, everything. Every moment seems to have been caught by a lens and plastered to four walls, as if to say to all who enter "This is me. This is who I am. Know me. Know me for who I am." It is the most vulnerable Clint has ever known Natasha to be. The room seems to call to him, to beg him to _know_ Natasha, to truly understand her as no one ever has.

Keeping the red-haired head in his lap, Clint turns to each of the pictures. His breath catches in his throat, escaping as a choked cough instead of a smooth exhale when Clint's mind finally remembers that oxygen is necessary to survival. She can't be more than 13, maybe 14, in the picture. Balancing on her toes in the reddest pointe shoes Clint has ever seen. She balances what must be dozens of bouquets in her arms and smiles the broadest smile. The Natasha in this picture looks happy, content. She looks like she has found her place in the world and is relishing the certainty that comes with knowing exactly who you are and where you belong. Clint can't help but be jealous of the ballerina in the picture.

* * *

_No more dreaming like a girl so in love with the wrong world…_

* * *

The next picture that catches Clint's eye is far more recent than the previous one, but still not up to date. The bottom is tinged slightly with red, as if someone had accidently painted over it. It's a sweet picture, but it causes bile to rise in Clint's throat. Natasha is too young in the picture. Too young to be smiling next to a man, clutching a bouquet. Too young to be wearing a white dress and a ring on her fourth finger on her left hand. As Clint tears the picture off the wall, screaming as he does so, the smoke curls around his ankles and his mind becomes hazy with the ash he has inhaled. He doesn't recognize that the man in the picture is him. But the mind is a powerful thing, and sometimes things that make no sense: meetings never made, birthdays never celebrated, weddings that crumbled and burned before they could happen, those things are easier left forgotten and ignored in the back of a person's mind. So Clint isn't reminded of the engagement ring that rests in his back pocket or of the dinner reservations planned for him and Natasha. He isn't reminded of the future that was taken with the pull of a trigger. And that is for the best. He doesn't see the inconsistencies of this world that twists the pieces of his mind and spits them back out.

* * *

_And if I only could, _

_Make a deal with God,_

_And get Him to swap our places…_

* * *

The next picture would take Clint's breath away, if there was any left. Instead he breathes in more of the smoke that is wrapping itself around him and the body he holds close. Natasha is asleep in the picture. It can't have been taken long before Clint met her and it pulls at his heart. She is so peaceful, her face pale as light reflects off of it. Drops of water cling to her eyelashes. One runs down her face like a tear and Clint can't resist the urge to lift his hand and caress her sleeping face, like he has so many times before. But there is no warmth. He doesn't feel the gentle rise and fall that indicates breath and life. There are no eyes that open to meet his. No sweet smile to remind him why he is alive. Nothing real. Nothing that brings his sweet Natasha closer to him. Clint stops breathing.

* * *

_Hold on and take a breath,_

_I'll be here every step,_

_Walking between the raindrops with you…_

* * *

Clint doesn't have much time left. The flames are getting closer and the door that separates him from everything is already beginning to burn. But he has to see her. See her smile, hear her laugh, feel her touch, smell her hair, taste her lips. Clint has to. If he doesn't he knows with a certainty that he has never felt in his life, he will die. So, with desperate eyes, Clint searches the wall. Searches for a happy memory, something to remind him of beauty and Natasha because there cannot be one without the other and he needs both right now. His eyes land on it. The perfect picture. Her head is thrown back in a permanent laugh, her eyes sparkling. Clint's eyes travel hungrily over the picture of a happy couple on their first _real_ date, dancing in a beautiful ballroom in Budapest. Clint's eyes never look at the man in the picture, he already knows that he wears a look of complete love and adoration because it is the look that greets him whenever he looks in the mirror. Instead, Clint sees Natasha smiling, remembers the feel of her gentle touch and her sweet laughter. Clint closes his eyes for the last time as he inhales one last breath of smoke.

* * *

'_Cause you and I, we were born to die…_

* * *

Clint's time is up.

* * *

_"You do remember that I love you. Clint, when all of this is gone, promise me that you will remember that I love you. Please, Clint, please…"_

* * *

The last bits of the door crumble and the flames enter the room.

* * *

_The bullet is aimed perfectly. He doesn't have the chance to say good-bye._

* * *

The pictures catch fire.

* * *

_Natasha's body collapses and Clint's scream is the only thing left to hear. _

* * *

The temperature rises steadily.

* * *

_His tears and the constant, never-ending grief are the only things that are real to him._

* * *

It's too late. It was always too late.

* * *

_She dies with her engagement ring on her finger, a smile on her face. Her back to the assassin. They're not even on a mission. _

* * *

This is the end.

* * *

_The last thing Natasha Romanoff says is "Yes." _

* * *

This is the end because there is nowhere else for the story to go.

* * *

_The last thing Natasha Romanoff hears is "Will you marry me, Nat?" _

* * *

This must be the end because the bad guys have won, the princess is dead, and the hero is left alone.

* * *

_The last thing Natasha Romanoff feels is the lips of her soon-to-be-husband and his warm arms as he picks her up and spins her around. _

* * *

When there is nothing good left, what story is there to tell?

* * *

_She doesn't feel the bullet._

* * *

Clint doesn't think twice about laying down next to the body of Natasha Romanoff and falling asleep as the flames lick the pictures on the wall. The last thing he hears is the laughter of a couple from so long ago, oh so long ago, as they dance in a beautiful ballroom with song lyrics as captions swirling around them.

* * *

_Clint can still feel the flames when he wakes up. Natasha isn't there to comfort him this time. She never will be again. Instead, all that is left is a sweet tinkling of music left by the captions on pictures that Clint dreamed._

* * *

_But loving him was red…_

_Until you let the spectrum in…_

_Choose your last words, this is the last time…_

* * *

"_It was just a dream, Clint. Just a dream…"_

* * *

**Author's Note: I'm officially obsessed with the whole "putting lines between segments in your story" thing. There is a button I can push and it puts lines in my story for me so that you lovely people can understand the rambling that is my story! How cool is that? Seriously. **_  
_

**So this was something insanely random that came out of me trying to write something semi-happy. I hope you enjoyed it and that it made sense to you. Poor Clint. Let me know what you thought with a review (pretty, pretty please with a cherry on top...). Thanks for reading and giving me some of your time; it means a lot to me.**

** Remember that you are beautiful,**

** -When In Doubt, Smile**


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